Of Ash and Ruin and of other Artes
by Kasan Soulblade
Summary: Techs are not the wave of the hand and muttering of flipant phonics. They are the representation... the accumilation... of expereince. Life itself made manifest. Considering that it's little wonder they are seeped with memories. Each Arte tells tales.
1. Ash and Ruin, Part 1

Of Ash and Ruin, part1

_A/n: This is a self-made challenge involving all of Asch's techs. I wants to see if I could go through them all. It's long so I broke it down a bit. I initially wanted to do a short story for each, but most of my ideas would only go on for a paragraph or two, or a description... than hang there. So, I present it as it came._

1) Fang Blade:

It was hard to get the sheer hieght into the jump. It took time, efort, and more effort. He spent months practicing, training his body to learn the human limits than more time was spent to learn how to bypass them. Months of jumping and leaping ("little rabbit" smirked the servents at first, hiding smiles and banter behind a shield of raised hand, oblivious of how the sounds slipped through. Ignorant of the sheer determination within the boy. "Just a boy playing at boy's games." "Boys will be boys." engorged on cliche, basking upon those wisdoms, they looked on, never understanding), with his sword and without he trained. Knowing in his bones that he had to get the hieght just right. Scaring one collum in the salle (a shadow side, so it was less likely he'd get caught) he marked his progress with the slash of a knife, when the leap met it's peak. Finally, one bold summer day, he got it right. The jump that was. His sucess, long sought after, never imagined to be complete, was overshadowed by one horrid fact that he landed wrong. So wrong was his descent that he managed to brek both legs upon impact.

Mother had gone into hysterics. Even though he smiled and assured her as the seventh fonists did thier work taht he was "fine" and "it didn't hurt at all".

Father... was Father. Distant, indiffernet, and oblivious. Even as Luke Fon Fabre rebuked his charge in the silted language nobles favor his blocky shadow licked up a pillar, a foundation who's scars were too small to be apparent to all save the most keen observer.

2) Havoc strike

Not part of the Albert-style, that cruel desent. Boot leading, angled just _so_ to get the upraised face with the heel... All in all the teche was perfectly designed to do maximum damage to a mundane, pedestrian, opoet. If asked, the technique had been inspired by waching Lod-Father Fon fabre's hawks at the hunt. At least that's what he would have said if asked. Atually, the idea had come to him while watching Abyss Man.

Not that he'd ever tell.

3) Raging blast

Something like hyperresonance on the smallest of scales. It was a contradiction, an impossibilty clasped in the palm of one's had, but too deadly to be gripped, to leathal not to be _resrained_. Still, there was a moment before the red tingued.. aura borke apart releasing it's essence taht he alwats shivered. Skittering starlets of crimson would scatter after the breaking, then hand in the air, winkingo ut like bahby stars. There was a heat tothe warmthless furnace, a rock still sability to the endless coiling. A heaviness to the air where the waiting explosion demurely hovered.

And with the lightest thoughts and darkes intents it cracked open, pouring forth it's lethal force.

Breaking thought air and atoms, ripping and tearing with... light and that with makes light dissolve.

Little wonder he hesitated before release, little wonder at all.

4) Rending thrust

Though it was untradiional and left him horribly open, shamefully so actually, and the first ew times he tangled his sword with his exoverant poising he practied it again and again. The idea and it's delivery shifted a bit, and once it complied and worked he praciced until mastered. As for why, the why he would muddle thought an unknown willing to endure the harsh disatisfaction at first to find a compromise.

Well it might have something to do with maturity.

Perhaps it has something to do with budding ("Thank Lorelie, at last!", he can hear all of his detractors, enemies, and friends alike cry out at that idel thought) patience.

Or it might have had to do with the much anticipated sight. The twisting of expression from kill or kill mentality to sheer dumfoundedness as instead of runing into "The Bloody"'s blade they meet his fist instead.

It's probably the last. Definatly the last.

5) Steel

Eyes closed, hands clenched, he dug deep, hard, and fast, plumbing the fire, the crucible, of his soul. Coming up with hate and hurt he opened his eyes, a soft snarl curled his lips, and murder was etched in the depths of his emerald eyes. The first time Largo sees it he cringes, daunted by the beserkers' rage that's housed in this "mere" boy.


	2. Ash and Ruin, part2

Of Ash and Ruin, part2

_To my readers, _

_ I had both part 1 and 2 with me today and a lot of time to write, so I thought I'd toss up both chapters between editing the next chapter of "Family of Idiots". Enjoy!_

_ Kasan Soulbalde_

6) Demon fist

After reading of it in a book (a forbidden book, soon after Father learned of the incident) he'd tied it. Running the words together as quick as he could, sweping one first up as quick and sure as he could...

( He'd punch though the air, give heaven a black eye. Better watch out, he'd hit Lorelie in the gut if he didn't hold back...)

Still he'd done it. And his arm hurt form the effort, ached something firece from trying, if truth be told. And Guy, his hesitant audiance of one, had laughed. It hurt, though he'd never tell, it hurt and his eyes stung. Face matching his hair he'd bolted, ignoring the slightly choked "Come back!" from his playmate.

He'd bolted.

And so a little while later, Ramdas found him. The fires between then and now had fled his face, crept up his cheeks and like unrully theives they slipped past eyes to slither down his face. Thus was the state Remdas found him in, he found his "young master" hiding amongst a pair of old fon tech canons. The weapons were so old and battered (and never mindthe shine of polish they were scarred and scars can't be scrubbed away no matter the efort) they were declaired "historical" and "harmless" and set up as a matched set in the drawing room. Amonst the war-like "decorations" Ramdas crept up upon whimpering charge, torn between task and station.

Finnaly, resolute for one of the first times in his life, Ramdas approuched. Bypassing barriers of rank and sation he approched his Young Lord, even indulging in his unanticipated-by-the-Score impulse daring to lay one hand on the crying boy's shoulder.

"Sometimes, Young Master, we must hold faith and talent with patience."

Sniffling, recogning the voice but not quite getting the words, the boy tried to gain some kind of composure. It failed of course. He was just a boy after all, one hurt and young enough that each hurt cut right to the heart. A tug was all it took, and the child pulled away form the steel he'd been crying against, greatful to curl against something soft, warm, human. Such were the instincts of the young. Soothing back the displaced red locks, Ramdas stroked the boys head until the crying had lost it's biting edge.

"It didn't work the first time." Ramdas explained patiently to the air above the child's head. Starting with the obvious, the best place to start with anything. "Sometimes that happens. With time and practice, the corner stones of true talent, that will change." A pause, and as red streaked, green eyes looked up at him, thier edges shimmering, Ramdas let his touch, that hesitant embrace, firm. In the grip of someone who was _sure_ the boy relaxed in full. Sniffling, leaning into that support. Steady was the soothing touch, and to that the boy found it in him to swallow down the last of his tears.

To that Ramdas chuckled, smiled even. Though it was by long and far the rarest of gestures to touch his face. Despite the cronic lack of practice he smiled well. Smiled warm. To that, the boy tried to smile back, and he succseded.

"And that will, that force that makes you try again even though you failed.... that's where the faith is, Young Master. You _know_ you will get something for trying. Even as do I. What you'll get, I can't say, I won't promise as to _what_ you'll get, but you'll get _something_."

7) Sonic Thrust

Though effective, often lethal, and quick, the Tech (an idea taken from fencing, carefully plagerized so he could claim innocence if asked) had two flaws. One: his sword got stuck. A lot. Such was the nature of the long sword was that it was thicker than the foil, and that was the root cause of the first problem. As for number two, well number two was born in part of issue number one. It was so _messy_ cleaning out the blood from his clothes. Blood... and entails, (he learned about the latter after getting the "brilliant" idea that it might make it easier to guilt his blade into the body cavity of the deceased by draggin his sword down then out. Organs were softer than bone after all... The frist time he did _that_ was the last as he's had blood, guts, and vomit to clean up that night.), left stains. Nasty, smelly stains that he could scrub out of his uniform with effort... but not his leather boots for some reason.

8) Sonic Blast

He used to call it "Super Sonic Thrust" once upon a time. Noir put that name to death after hearing him say it just once. Gently pulling him to one side and explainaing that it sounded _wrong_ had been her first step. When he hadn't learned his lesson she'd let Urushi and York hear about his experiments in pikcing nominitives. Thier teasing (course, involving more to do about male anomity than he really ever wanted to learn about his masculenity) had spurred his creativiy to new heights, and thus the new name came to be.

9) Guardian Field

Born of impulse (a mad impulse came over him in the middle of a battlefield while fonic artes and bestial claws were flying) crafted of conradiction. His blade tip was pointing _down_ of all things while a yeti was barreling down on him. (Instinct, ingrainted, trained, _SCREAMING at him!_ Roll aside, get clear, srike back! Action: The closing of his eyes, the slowing of his franticly beating heart. Relax, deep breath. Let it all fall away...) it's white light (born of fonic writings crafted without the need to etch symbols on the snow. Symbol trailed after his sword as he swept it about him. Slow and sure, counter-clockwise, a dark-less shadow, born of the dying shade cast by his sword...) was soothing. Somehow the illumination made him think of home.. (Warm, just a touch too much, but not enough to be annoying. Soft as Mother's touch, tender as love.) Of home and other things...

Later, mockingly, Sync had dared called him "Sacred Flame". Nursing burnt feet all the while, the youngest God General had been a fool and more than a fool to duck into the light. Attempting to seek sanctuary in the range of Asch's fonic artes, having to chose between the claws and the light he'd chosen the light... And was punished acordingly. Thus, the "Sacred Flame" rejoinder delivered in a smart ass tone, all designed to get a rise out of the red head.

Something that could be reported to Van to get Asch on some sort of punishment detail of course. I was all so painfully obvious. Sync ached to tattle, and Asch wasn't going to comply.

To words that normally would have started a fight Asch shrugged, polishing his sword, musing over this knick and that on it's edge. with a curse Sync stormed off, and Asch didn't bother to watch him go. He was... bemused at the golden flickure that he spied amongst the green. The blur of color that marked his eyes amongst the reflection.

For once, just this once, he beleived.

He was the Flame, the Light, for he had called and the fires had come.

Of hell, or heaven, he hardly cared.

_Sacred_ could cut both ways, after all.

10) Light Spear Canon

"Spin like a cheagle, sting like a bee!" Urushi hooted.

"Round and round she goes, where_ever_ he lands nobody knows." York giggled.

"Seriously Cardinal" Noir whimpered, nursing her aching head in her hands. "You're making me dizzy just watching."

The occasion? Post consumption. Of what, you ask? Well quite a few shots of Rocket Fuel Tequila, more shot glasses that could be conviently counted were scattered about the floor, some half full, most not. How many? Well counting coherently was beyond them _all_ at this point, so that sum was ever a mystery. As for the location... it was Nam Combodia, the Wing's Meeting room. And the restult when all was added together, when all was said and done... Well the ceiling became holey, not holy, but _hole-y _as "Light Spear Canons" smashed through the roof and made it look like swiss cheese.


	3. Chapter 3

Of Ash and Ruin, part3

11) Devil's Inferno

While useful in combat (a touch slow, but devistating in a vicious sort of way) it double as practicle. As a fire starter it was better than a tinder, spared him the indignaty of rubbing of two pieces of wood together and praying that friction and the mercy of the wind would be enough, and it could (if used with utmost care) be used to dry clean his uniforms. Quickly, dry clean, always good when running about the world. Another plus was that when wood was scarce and he wanted say.. toast, or toasted sandwitches, he could use the Arte to cook.

12) Fang Blade Havoc

Like a hand in a glove the attack glowed from one move to the other. Leep with blade extended, sweep sword up as you ascended, descend with the boot leading. It came without forethought, learning, or effort. Right as could be, it was a suitable tech, efficiant and both vicious and just a touch cruel.

13) Fang Blade Rage

"The trick," he'd expaliend to his curious Master with a shrug that set the young Cantor's priestly robes to rustling, "is all in the leap. You leap only so high, lead the victum higher than your own ascent with the sweep of the blade. It's pivital that you land first. Before touching down you have to have the Raging Blade charging so that when the victum falls you can easily release."

Tapping his finger against perused lips, Asch the Bloody considered his room mate in Daath's medical center. Something like pity touched his face as the Lion groaned and writhered on his cot across the room. Still, pity or not, the misplaced noble's next word came and with them came a smile.

"If Largo hadn't bent over double when my blade slashed him the blast would have got him in the chest, not in the head. Considering the thickness of the Black Lion's skull he should be fine. Concussed," Asch amended, brightly. "but fine."

14) Lightning blade

"God General Asch the Bloody is being delayed." Sync explained with a vicious smirk.

To that Arietta giggled, giggles became odd sounding "murf"s and snorts as she clapped one hand over her traiterous mouth. Even Legretta, cool untouchable Legretta, cracked a smile at Sync's understatement. To that, Van rose an eyebrow, but did not rise to properly glare down at his giggly underlings.

"Am I missing something?" Van asked cooly, hoping that by tone alone he could stem any other shows of... immaturity.

"The F... Fon tech machines that malfunctioned were destroyed." Largo reported dutifully, the Black Lion's voice was half choked with laughter, his lips were twitching wildly, so much so that Van half thought that the man's expression might be some sort of precurser to a siezure.

"Then where's Asch?" Strained silence and smothered smiles were their response. Heaving a sigh, Van snapped the obvious destination and perhaps got closer to the source of their cheer for those poorly hidden smiles got a little wider all around. "The medical wing?" Van grated out. "Was he wounded during the operation and sent to the medical wing?"

To that Sync coughed sharply and Arietta giggled despite the hand. To the children's continued show of mirth Van's patience with his subordinants trickled between his fingers, almost fully spent. Fingers drumming a restless tune on the arm of his chair, the Commidant waited. Waited for an expalination, or for some sanity to come back into his underlings. All he recieved was evasion. Legretta studiously studied the ground, Arietta and Sync snickered like adolecences in the throes of their first practicle joke, and Largo let out a booming laugh that he couldn't turn into a cogh in time. Sensing the lethaly low level of patience in his superior, Largo set one hand on Arietta's shoulder, the other on Syncs, and choked out somethiong about "watching the children". They quick marched out, and when the door to Van's Belkend office hissed closed they burst out in to wild laughter.

Only Legretta remained, chewing her lips to avoid laughing, and pointedly _not _looking at her supperior.

"He's capable of sumoning the second fonons as lighting while attacking with his sword simutaniously." Legretta reported, perhaps imaging some tenure of concern to Van's face when he looked up sharply at that startling revilation, she hastened to assure. "He's fine, just... frizled."

Not quite understaing Van tipped his head in mute inquiry. To that Legretta contineud, or rather elaborated.

"Well sir..." A cough, eyes that almost settled on him skittered away. "As Arietta said during the time of the... incident... he looks like a... a Liger having a bad fur day."

"Frizzled.." Van repeated dully.

"Yes sir, very much so... The... the hair you understand. It's so long and standing all on end and all..."

Closing his eyes with a irritated sigh, Van smirked despite himself. It was the closest he'd gotten to laughing in years and years.

"A Liger having a bad fur day?" Van repeated slowly, carefully, least his expressionless facade shater under the force of budding sniggers.

"He's got another foot or two form the experience, at least until the hair settles." Letretta reported duitifully, eyes dancing though she did not quite _dare_ to laugh aloud.

"How?" Van managed, daring nothing more, knowing if he did he _would_ laugh.

"He missed."


	4. Ash and Ruin, part 4

Of Ash and Ruin, part4

_Sorry about the lack of updates, I had some writer's block on some of these and a bit of trouble getting to a compter. 've got the roughdraft for the rest of them in the wings, these are the final drafts the attack techs I had so much trouble with,,,_

15) Rending Havoc

Why? curiousity perhaps. It was hardly an effective of efficiant arte. He'd just opened up with the move on the Replica at Yulia city on a whim. He was... curious to see if the Dreck was smart enough to avoid the obvious motions of the menuviour. That idiot of course ran _right_ into the uppercut and got kicked in the head as Asch descended. When all was said and done Asch grimaced, triumphant, but aching. Or rather, to be more exact, his foot hurt. The Dreck had a damned thick skull.

16) Raging Havoc

Rage blast and havoc strike. An attack that threw the enemy back followed by a move that _needed_ them to stay close to work. Resting in his spartian quarters Asch mulled over the contradiction, tried to recall where the move had come from... It was almost as if some higher power, some greater force dying from lack of creativity said to itself "well why not string the two together and see what happens". With a grunt Asch gave up, luckily for him there was an all powerfull higher power that he could blame for this spot of stupidiy.

Lorelie.

From times like this (though he'd never tell) he was glad that there was such a being he could blame on such lapses of thought. It spared him from having to dig too deep in his own flaws to find answers to the various stupidities he'd endured thought his whole life.

17) Rending Blast

After seeing the move Gingi wondered. Rending wasn't that some kind of well.. slashing motion. Knives rended, claws rended... The wordl brought forth imageso f horribletears, rips of the fleash due to the will of various monsters... but blasting (and this is where the contradiction cmae in) was alwas the result of a fontech machine that generally left smoking craters in the ground after the fuse went out.

Unable to coincide the two images the piolet considered asking Asch about it.

Then he recalled Asch's generally homocidal maniac-esk turn of personality lately.

Deciding silence was goldne the piolet let the question drop with a sigh.

18) Rending Fang Blade

"Umm. Asch..." Tugging his beard Urushi bit his ip as the sullen God General stormed out of the Sherry hill Sephiroth. "What'd I say?"

"Juggling?" York snickured, easily amused like always he repeated his previous comment, voice going a bit shrill about the edges. "_Juggling_?"

"Well, think 'bout it." Urushi huffed. "Tosses 'em up again and again, ain't that a type of juggling?"

"It's an attack." York chuckled and chided all at once. "Involving sword and artes and..."

"It's juggling." Urushi obstantly cut in. "Think 'bout it. First hit tosses 'em up..."

Considering how well Urushi was going at it, Noir descided not to answer the squat man's "What'd I say?" comment. The way they were going at it Asch would expalin it all in good time.

Probably with a graphic example involving "juggling" her team mates, but well...

Noir honestly couldn't say that they hadn't asked for it so she wouldn't interfeer.


	5. Ash and Ruin, part5

Of Ash and Ruin, part5

Author's note: One more to go, saved up Asch's "spells" for last as I have a semi-short story in mind for them. Enjoy the last attack techs!

19) Slag Assault

A great attack, decent range, but it did hells to the floor.

20) Swallow Fury

Fury and flying, it was a little of both. Sword swinging, feet kicking, he ascended with his foe. Bright red blood falls at each injury, a sick, sticky, crimson rain.

It's the accumulation of all he's learned.

Strike from behind. Mercy is weakens. Never hold back, ever.

And when it works, it works beautifully. It's a cruel sadist's kind of beauty, but despite how degenerate, it's there.

And when it fails, it fails spectacularly. Leaving him horribly vulnerable, slashing at nothing but air…

And the riposte, when it comes on those rare instances he misses. It's cruel, yet seeped and sticky with justice. After all, a foe so ruthless as to go so far as to hit from the back, with eyes alight and with such a horrid grin... It must only be right to return the favor, or so the enemy always assumes.

Such is justice served, an eye for an eye, a sadistic kind of justice.

But despite its twisted breed, it's a justice of kind, and it's there.

And that's all that matters.

21) Guardian

It all came down to definitions:

"The action of guarding is fore going aggressive action in the favor of defense. A guardian is one who protects another. The nature of a guardian must be altruistic. To protect another requires a sacrifice of the self. Be it merely the stemming of one's actions to remain or the taking of a wound to protect. There is some loss in the act of guarding, be it choice, blood, or self."

A warning...

"It's a state, a kind of forced tranquility that extends about yourself engulfing a little span of the world. It blunts damage, but does not stop it in full, and once you start you can't take it back until it's over. To initiate the Arte you can neither move, nor dodge, nor attack, or cast Fonic Artes." Tugging at his nose, York of the Dark Wings considered Cardinal from the edge of his vision. Watched as the young man's face twisted from confusion to incredulous in a heartbeat.

"Forced tranquility?" Came the question, the challenge, expected York sighed.

The easy things were the hardest to explain sometimes.

"Not quite the contradiction it seems at first glance, Call it meditation. Cooling down. Willful containment than dispersement of rage. Those are the more mundane forums of Guardian. Regardless of how it's used all the forms require one thing. Reflection, acceptance, surrender. You don't whistle and it comes, there's no "I need to live through this hit so I'll do it to save my life." The names the thing you know. No controls, no control. Period."

The eye that wasn't covered squinted, took up the sober Cantor's expression, and the thief's beaky face had no hint of smile, or anxiety, or anything.

"Still wanna learn?" He deadpanned.

To that Asch nodded. "It might be useful some day to know how cast the Arte…"

"No." York corrected coolly, clearly the boy wasn't listening. "You'll be used, there's no _use. _You're used, that's all."

Silence, then, a thoughtful one as Cardinal considered…

"You still wanna learn?"

To that Asch smirked. "Do I have a choice?"

"Nope."

"Because it'll come if it wants to, use me as it needs to, and ditch me when I need it most."

"That's "Guardian" in a nutshell." York confirmed with a wry grin.

"That's crazy." Asch grumbled.

"Who said you altruistic types were sane to begin with?"

"Sh…Shut up!" Asch flared.


	6. Ruins of a thought: Into

Of Ash and Ruin and other Artes

Compilations of Fonic techs

Grave, Icicle Rain, Explosion, Thunder blade,

Introduction:

A theory on fonons.

There is, in the soul, a place. A timeless span locked in the seasons of thought, crafted from the worn and wearying hand of experience.

From this, so said the pagans, mana is born. From mana we can reach and touch the very echoes of existence. That elusive stuff, known as fonons. As all is made of sound, all is connected, thus all can be conceived only imagination is that final barrier.

So goes the theory.

Fastidiously scrubbed and scraped of all non Lorian sentiment. Couched in a gentleman's language, it's vulgarities expelled, it's contradictions corrected, this idea is left to linger. And of it, there is that damning allusion that has something of free will, a ghost of odd ethos, and thus it is peddled to the select few. The elite. Read by fanatics, tweaked till it was twisted beyond convolution, the thoughts were shattered, splintered remnants devoid of original intent. Thus was the ruin considered, and amongst the ruins what had once been coherent enlightened thought had deranged into the scribbling of the mad.

Thus, it was marked, and promptly forgotten. The fragments were sent to gently mold in a forgotten corner of some back wash cloister's library.

Yet, though forsaken and marked blackest blasphemy by all… it still remains. That span less place, weathered by thought, shaped by experience, where the stuff of self, and legends, and soul, congeals.

And bides.


End file.
